NO REST FOR THE WICKED
	Our new house, purchased this year, is our fifteenth since we married in 1954. We don't 
anticipate moving from there in the foreseeable Future. Five of our homes have been so 
for a fairly short time, ranging from a few weeks to a few months - but at least they 
have been dwellings as opposed to mere holiday places of residence. We did put our roots 
down there, if only briefly.
	Our first love-nest was a one-bedroom flat in a big old house. The bath was next to the 
kitchen window so at night when you got in or out of the bath you had to put out the 
light otherwise your nude frame would be silhouetted against the curtains. In those days, 
when I was at college and Alan worked at Vickers Armstrongs and studied in his spare 
time, we used to go shopping on our motor-bike, a Matchless, filling the panniers with 
shopping. We thought it quite grand to buy six ounces of mince to make our lunch. Once 
Alan's wallet containing all his wages flew out of his pocket. Some kind person returned 
it intact. You must admit that such kind people are not met with frequently.
	We had a few college friends round from time to time, and span a few jazz discs 
accompanied by beer and merrydown cider. Our neighbour in the other ground floor flat, 
disturbed at night, poked his head round the corner and said 'Get them bums outa here!' 
in true Wild West style. Like us, the neighbours were newlyweds and the bride's idea of 
culinary excellence was to turn the gas full up under a frying pan full of sausages until 
they were black. We knew these domestic niceties because we had to traipse through their 
kitchen to get to the toilet. Hardly a civilised arrangement. Another denizen of that 
establishment used to start up his malodorous old car early each morning in the small 
courtyard outside our bedroom window. We called him very rude names.
	Once a friend of ours, who used benzedrine rather freely, came to visit. He had been 
kept awake by the self-administered drug for a long time and eventually sleepiness caught 
up with him. Or was it dopiness? We were asleep in our bedroom. Keith was on the sofa in 
the sitting room where a blazing coke fire kept him warm. Suddenly there was what 
appeared to be a loud explosion and Keith came into our bedroom saying lugubriously 'I've 
burned my hands'. He had found that the coke fire was too hot so had cast a bowlful of 
cold water over it. The burst of steam had scalded his hands badly.
	After he had had his hands dressed at the hospital he tinkered with his motorcycle 
outside in the yard, resulting in his bandages becoming inky black. I admit I got very 
irritated with him as I regarded his injury as the result of inexcusable drug-induced 
folly. He was really quite a smart bloke except when he overdid the benzedrine.
	It goes without saying that this rundown of our various homes through the years is not 
supposed to be boringly detailed. There may be an odd, bizarre illumination here, a ray 
of happiness there, a murky effulgence or a roseate glow  elsewhere.
	'All we want is a little box!' was our heartfelt cry at the inelegance of our life at 
the flat. The little box is what we got after our sojourn at the Winn Road flat for a 
year or so.
	It was a classic child's house, a porched door in the middle, with a window on each 
side, three windows above. Garage round the back. The Blenheim apple tree - how golden, 
sweet and delicious were those applies! - gave the house its name Blenheim Cottage. It 
was in yuppy, trendy Chandlers Ford - not so trendy then. The large garden went down to a 
stream. We had lawns, flowerbeds, fruit trees, bushes and vegetables. This house was the 
backdrop to important happenings in our lives. We got our degrees. I used to lie on the 
lawn, studying, sunbathing and smoking occasionally. In those days the two latter 
activities were not frowned upon. I hoped that knowledge would penetrate my bran as 
deeply as I could feel the sun burning my skin.
	In that very house, our eldest child was born. Mum was there to lend a hand. The birth 
was a battle indeed - and that was only the beginning of the troubles. I felt a bit under 
par and tired with lack of sleep as I tried to cope with a baby clearly dissatisfied with 
breast milk although I sickened myself with drinking pints of Lactagol, the galactagogue. 
After a long period of research and experiment (as they say) we devised the perfect baby 
food. That did not stop his nether regions from working overtime and producing an 
inordinate amount of dirty nappies. No washing machine in those days!
	Birth and death. The death of my dear Dad who died of pneumonia in hospital. Shortly 
before he went into hospital I had a bad accident. I was carrying a large pan of boiling 
water upstairs to warm Alan's bath (the water heating system wasn't all it could have 
been) and I spilt it all over my legs and feet. I was horribly scalded but healed up in 
time to be able to attend my Dad's funeral. We rode there on the motor-bike with our 
neighbour looking after our son.
	My dad lay there, shrouded in his coffin, so white, his work-gnarled hands for once at 
rest. Untellable, this sight, in its effect. I recalled his presence as we had known it 
over the years - his cheerful, resigned patience in many a trying circumstance, his quiet 
humour, his industriousness. Two world wars and a depression clouded his life. During the 
war and up to his death he would leave home about five o'clock in the morning, returning 
late at night - a three hours' journey every day. The cold, the hard work, the 
exhaustion, the to-and-fro-ing. Now that it was too late I longed to know the feel, the 
texture, the substance of his life.
	After graduation Alan got another job which entailed a long journey including crossing 
Southampton Water so we decided it was time to 'up anchor' and find a home nearer his 
work.
	We didn't make much on the sale of 'Blenheim Cottage' but had a bit back because, as it 
was an older house, the deposit was larger. The place we liked best on the other side of 
the water was in the region of £3,350 whereas Blenheim Cottage had been around the £1800 
mark, thus we would have a bigger mortgage to pay off.
	'Hollybank' was definitely a 'U' as opposed to a 'non-U' house. Wrought ironwork, 
landscaped gardens, oak block floors, central heating, cloakroom and large entrance hall. 
We were proud to show it off but wished we had more money to furnish it as we wished.
	We bought a blue mini on the never-never, and I went to teach at a nearby grammar 
school. The pupils and staff there were really great - I never appreciated how nice it 
had been to work there until much later.
	We had great parties at Hollybank with college friends. The drunken parties went on all 
night with people sleeping here and there. The nice oak block floor got stained with 
whisky. In the sweltering summer of 1958 we would get up late, bleary-eyed, irritable, 
already hot and reluctant to start preparing breakfasts.
	When the birth of our second child was imminent I left my job and brought our son home 
from the full-time residential nursery in which we had placed him after having had a most 
difficult and problematic experience with nursemaids. The financial situation, of course, 
was hardly improved by me having another baby and leaving my work. We started to toy with 
the idea of making an entirely fresh start somewhere else, like Australia.
	At the time there was a TV series called 'Whiplash', probably featuring stockmen and 
cattle-duffers, but most certainly featuring kangaroos leaping over the sun-baked plains. 
My mother-in-law was apparently doing all she could to make England as unpleasant a place 
for us as she could, spreading gloom and despondency. We did appear to be digging 
ourselves a little deeper into a financial hole. As time passed, so our toying with the 
idea of emigrating became more serious.
	We sold our house to a Mr. Haddock and made a nice little profit. What a fishy business 
that might have been! - and went to live with my Mum and John the lodger in my old family 
home in Fareham for a few weeks before sailing for the Antipodes.
	Mum was still suffering from the loss of my Dad three years previously and her health 
was none too good. Her teeth and eyes were giving her trouble but our quite determined 
efforts to help her were met with a far stonier determination not to seek any treatment. 
John the lodger was there to cheer her up, but as he was suffering from four complaints - 
emphysema, bronchitis, thrombosis and high blood pressure - and was still smoking Capstan 
Full Strength, he was not the cheeriest soul alive. We were rambling on about having a 
farm in Australia and John said that his farm would be 'six foot of soil'. We still have 
a tape-recording of some of that conversation. Maud was fascinated by the cat, and 
Mycroft was concerned that his grandmother was not going to come with us. I did not like 
leaving Mum as she was in low health and spirits, but she was keeping an eye on John. 
When we settled in Australia we looked for a small house nearby where she could come and 
live. I did have my eye on a little place which I saw every day and called 'Mum's house' 
in my mind.
	In 1963 we had serious floods in Australia. My father-in-law came for a protracted visit 
and our third child was born. In 1964 Mum was hospitalised and so was John. In October of 
that year they both died.
	The 'Fairsky' was interesting - we enjoyed scrambling up and down its five decks and 
scooting around on its polished vinyl corridors. It was an Italian boat staffed by young 
Italians from orphanages. They were only given their keep. We sometimes had a choice of 
Italian and English cookery, but the dinners always started the same: -
	Pastina or rice in broth
	Consommé in cup
	The odd characters on the boat were a saga in themselves. At our table was a weird 
selection of snobby, inhibited people. One very deaf chap pointed out to us 'The Gap, 
part of the South Heads' where people could jump off when they had enough. A young woman, 
an easily pleased type of person, could hardly wait to get to Melbourne - particularly 
Coles - where you could get a really good cup of Bushells Tea. We also formed a jazz band 
on the boat which did not exactly reach the heights of popularity we had hoped. 
	All the teachers on the boat were asked to babysit the children for about three hours 
every morning - purportedly to teach them. Of course it was really to keep the kids out 
of the hair of the boat's staff and the parents. There were no teaching aids of any 
description there - no books, no pens, no pencils, no blackboard. We told the kids what 
we knew about Australia, which was precious little, and what we didn't know we made up. I 
doubt if it had any long-term ill effect on the kids.
	The Migrant Centre was our sixth place of sojourn. It was a quite picturesque set of 
wooden chalets set in pretty sun-drenched woodlands. There was a recreation hall, a 
children's playground, a laundry and shower block, and other amenities. Every morning we 
went to the canteen for breakfast where a specially rich semolina for young children was 
prepared. Mycroft called this 'babies' grade lemonade'. Sometimes we adults were allowed 
to have a helping of this - a rare treat. There were Italians in the centre and Mycroft's 
kindergarten teacher was called Mrs. De Juanos.
	At the Migrant Centre my services as a pianist were called upon. A plump young Scottish 
lady, the Recreation Officer, regimented the children with my assistance into preparing 
for a concert. We also prepared a programme for Radio Station 4KQ.
	On the radio programme one of the little singers was asked how long she and her family 
had been at Wacol Migrant Centre. 'A year', she said, in the most lugubrious tone 
possible. In truth, there was a recession in Queensland in 1962. Accountants were manning 
petrol pumps, civil servants working in shops and skilled mechanics as house painters. We 
too had disappointments. Alan went for the job of Bowen Publicity Officer but at least 
came second!
	After about three months Alan got a job with the CSIRO in Sydney and departed thence to 
find us a home and to start work. Through estate agents with whom we later became quite 
friendly we got a house in Woy Woy. While the purchase was going through we rented a 
house in Blackwall Road. Behind it was a wide expanse of grass leading down to an inlet 
of Brisbane Water called Woy Woy Bay.
	The children started school. Mycroft said he had a teacher called 'Miss Missano'. This 
had to be a clear impossibility and her name was obviously 'Miss Arno'. Mycroft got a 
smack for being silly but it turned out he was right after all.
	We were pleased with our brand new first Australian home. We had vinyl floor coverings 
throughout except in the sitting room. We bought a lounge suite à la Keith Knox, black 
with white buttons. We acquired the block of land next door, a Ford Customline Station 
Wagon and a Saanen goat and I got pregnant for the third time, the Big Flood and Grandpa 
came. And Mycroft started a bushfire in the scrub next door. He was always one to 
experiment, usually with our nerves and tempers.
	Didn't it rain, Chillun? People often got bogged down in our road. I spearheaded a 
campaign to get it tar-sealed. The water rose and rose, eventually nearly reaching the 
level of our floorboards, which were raised, as in all Australian homes, not because of 
flooding but because of white ants. The neighbours, unable to bear the proximity of this 
ocean of dirty water, vamooshed to the homes of friends or relations. We alone remained. 
Slides remain to remind us of the Big Wet and its consequences.
	By the time our third baby was born the waters had started to subside and the usual 
lovely sunny Australian winter weather had returned. By that time our song was 'Set my 
Feet on Higher Ground'.
	For the sum of six hundred pounds we purchased forty acres of timbered hilly country at 
Ourimbah. It was about forty minutes- drive away. It was also five hundred feet above sea 
level. We took the car there weekends and started to attempt to turn the bush into lawn 
with a mower and by hand. We first made 'runarounds', paths through the bush, and 
eventually had cleared a large area by the time Athalie could crawl. She was a bush baby 
all right! We built a hut, had camp fires and boiled the billy on many a sunny occasion.
	We sold Paton Street in Woy Woy and while our new bushland home was being built to the 
lock-up stage we rented a lovely old rambling timber home at Terrigal. Terrigal, meaning 
'place of little birds', was a seaside resort, and our home was just one road back from 
the beachfront.
	We had dramatic weekends up at Ourimbah, blasting out tree stumps. Other notable facts 
were my gaining a Master's degree from Sydney University and becoming pregnant for the 
fourth time.
	The tree stumps, which frustrated our desire to have sweeping lawns, were a challenge. 
First we would dig a deep hole under the undesirable stump or log, then get a nice 
plastic bag full of prilled ammonium nitrate to press into the hole together with a few 
sticks of gelignite. The detonator would be stuck into the gelignite and the end of a 
length of fuse wire crimped into the other end of the detonator. The whole caboodle would 
be compacted as much as possible, the end of the fuse lit and we would all run like 
hell!
	Sometimes the charge would just blow out of the hole in an anticlimactic way. Sometimes 
there was an explosion all right, but the stump didn't shift. But sometimes the charge 
was effective.
	One such charge lifted a log so high that it merely appeared as a small stick up in the 
sky. When it started to descend, everyone moved even further away from the blasting area. 
The log grew larger and larger, eventually landing with a tremendous thump. Our guests 
really enjoyed that.
	It was with pleasure and relief that we moved into our unfinished home. It was hard work 
struggling with three young children, hardly any cooking facilities except a blow lamp, 
or electricity, limited water, a scorching summer and an advanced pregnancy. All the 
mod-cons appeared, however, with time and effort. We had a generator to provide electric 
power. We smartened up the house between us; Alan put in thirteen interior doors, 
skirtings and pelmets, did all the plumbing and electrical wiring and built some nice 
bluegum bookshelves. I did the painting and had our third girl, Ruth. We had dams built, 
substantial building extensions added and more water tanks provided so that eventually 
things became quite civilised, and established, so we thought.
	However, as we had had ten homes in eleven years of marriage, there must have been gypsy 
strain somewhere. To celebrate our permanency I had two more daughters, May and Eleanor.
	Before I went back teaching full-time when Eleanor reached school age we had a pretty 
full social life - visits, dinner parties, membership of the Labor Party and several 
other cultural and musical organisations. We had musicales, gambling evenings and lots of 
other meetings galore. I also played the piano for school concerts, and the church organ 
at Ourimbah, occasionally at Lisarow and Narara.
	I spent two years teaching in the Riverina where we acquired property number eleven, a 
lovely timber home on three blocks of land close to the River Murray. Then I returned to 
teach on the Central Coast and had an interesting and successful career. It was great to 
return to our Ourimbah home, and tenants were installed in our Riverina property. Our 
daughter Ruth now owns that place, but we might buy it back from her. That doesn't look 
too likely at the moment, though.
	At the end of 1991 I retired, by which time three of our daughters were married. In 1993 
Eleanor and Maud were also married. All the girls are now divorced except Ruth who is 
separated. She has two little girls and Athalie has one ten-year-old daughter.
	Between 1992 and the present we have been living either in England or Australia. Alan's 
parents died in the early eighties and left him a seaside bungalow. We sold it after 
doing it up and bought a much larger, very stylish house with six bedrooms, four 
bathrooms and six rooms on the ground floor. It also had a nice cellar. Eventually in 
1997 we sold it. In 1995 we had purchased a far larger home with thirty-two rooms. It had 
been a Residential Home for old people. The two latter houses were in a fair busier and 
noisier (but more central) part of town than the seaside bungalow. Both the latter 
houses, too, were in a state of incredible shambles when we first took a look around 
them. Time, patience, hard work and expenditure took care of these problems.
	The house bought in 1993 was like Hollybank - stylish with fancy extras. It had a pond, 
six bay windows, a stained glass peacock window and beautifully turned banisters and 
balustrades.
	When we arrived there, there was a bathroom in the front of the house with the peacock 
window. The bathroom had been installed by the previous owner to be an ensuite to the 
main bedroom. When you went up the stairs to the first floor there was a landing and a 
passageway leading to the staircase to the second floor. A mirror behind which was that 
particular bathroom, faced you. The people who had the house before us used to do bed and 
breakfasts. One Sunday night 'the old swindler' who sells fruit and vegetables at the 
Sunday market, (and whose tricks you have to watch), was a bit drunk and went along the 
passage to ascend to the second floor where his bedroom was. He had a bag grasped in his 
hand containing all his takings. He apprehended a burly figure approaching him along the 
passage and, fearing robbery, let out a tremendous yell.
	The last two properties - Park Road and Westgate - were both bankrupt properties where 
most of the prime items had been ripped out, and general shambles reigned. My present 
home which is at present being sold, has sixteen bedrooms, three bathrooms, a shower room 
and an unfinished bathroom. We put a new roof and carpeted it throughout, with many other 
additions. It has a summer house (in disrepair) and six other sheds. The garden has 
herbaceous borders, fruit trees and bushes, terraces and lawns. The furniture, with the 
exception of a few pathetic sticks, has been either despatched to Australia or to the 
local auctions.
	Alan is already in our new home in Australia. Yes, our new home! Number fifteen, in 
fact. Eleanor, our youngest, is looking after the old family home at Ourimbah. She is 
sharing it, and its expenses, with a friend.
	Our new home is six hours' car trip from the Central Coast. It is on twenty-five acres. 
There is a four-bedroom brick veneer home, landscaped gardens, well-stocked beds, tennis 
court, sauna, spa, guest accommodation, thirty thousand gallons of water and a kilometre 
creek frontage with fishing platform.
	I still yearn after the old family home at Ourimbah which has all those memories of 
thirty-seven years tucked away in its every nook and cranny. All the redolence of past 
summers is held within its rooms. Memories of our lovely daughters in their graceful 
gambolling, their noisy mirth, of Mycroft with his sledgehammer and his high mountain of 
split wood. The old home is not lost - it is still ours. As it changes under the care of 
others, it may loosen its hold on my heart, while we fall and love more and more with our 
new, easier-to-maintain and beautifully appointed new home.